Elizabeth studied his face, searching for the telltale flicker of discomfort, the tightness around his mouth, the minuscule hesitation thatalwaysbetrayed him. “Why do I get the distinct feeling that you are avoiding the truth?”
Darcy’s steps did not falter, but there it was—something pinched, reluctant in the set of his jaw. A hesitation so minute that another person might have missed it. But she did not.
She had him now.
“You see,” she continued breezily, “it leads me to a rather obvious conclusion, does it not? That you, too, have apersonalstake in all of this.”
His stride slowed just slightly. A guilty pause.
So. She had guessed correctly.
“Am I right, Mr. Darcy?”
“I am—” He stopped himself. The first word had barely left his mouth before he seemed to think better of it. He turned his head slightly, fixing his gaze on the distant horizon, the taut set of his shoulders screaming discomfort.
“Now, that is interesting. What could possibly be of such personal importance to you? I wonder… revenge, perhaps?”
Darcy’s mouth opened, as if ready to refute her outright. But then—he hesitated again. His brows drew together slightly, his jaw locked. Something in his expression—something self-conscious—flashed too quickly to disguise.
Elizabeth’s stomach curled with intrigue.Whatwas he hiding?
“You are not merely some errand boy for the Home Office, nor are you a common investigator. You are not a soldier or a constable. The Prince has men for that. And yet… he chose you. Becausethis… something about all this…ispersonal for you.”
Darcy’s jaw twitched. “I fail to see—”
“Yes or no?” she cut in.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. He said nothing.
Oh.
Hedidhave something.
She arched a brow, feigning a thoughtful look. “I shall take that as a confession.” A score of possibilities ran through her mind at once, each more outlandish than the last. She discarded the ridiculous immediately.
The Prince had chosenhimas her personal knight errant. That, in itself, was strange. Darcy might have come from better circles, but he himself was not a man of rank or influence. He was no statesman, no minister. His work at the Home Office was surely competent, but nothing suggested he was indispensable. Perhaps it was precisely because he was the opposite.
But whyhim?
Why this case?
Why her?
Was it… political? No. If it were merely about the case itself, he would not look so very much like a trapped animal.
Was it… financial? She pursed her lips, considering it. If he had something to gain, that would explain why a gentleman with no particular interest in her family should be so closely entangled in this affair.
But that explanation did not quite fit, either. Mostly because Darcy did not seem like the man to lose track of even a stray penny, let alone something large enough to engulf him inthis. Not out of greed, but rather precision. He simply could not allow mistakes.
She studied his rigid profile, his obvious reluctance.
“Perhaps…” She exhaled, pacing herself. “Perhaps you have some personal connection to one of the men involved. The Prince, perhaps. Or the prime minister?” She paused. “The assassin?”
Darcy shot her a look so incredulous that she nearly laughed.
“Not that, then.” She hummed in thought. “Perhaps your interest is in one of the suspected conspirators.”
Nothing.
